In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Depth.”
Swept by the cold wind I went under a roof
Beneath which was a shine, warm but aloof,
That shine promised me something as I walked inside,
Itself hoping I won’t hear it and spree,
It said an untold story to a stranger that was me,
The waves of its solitude drowned me in,
Unaware of a beautiful something it hid from me,
In the depths, only your name I could see,
I swam into darkness trying to reach,
The silver moon was singing the song of our fate,
It must have been a melodious mackerel sky,
For I can’t be so sure whilst myself being too high.
The energy, the source, and the medium are all distorted.
You give me the thrill of a leftover frill
Oh brown sugar, how would someone taste so good as you.
Gotta tell her I’m into dark tinted pots of glass; In which grows a flower so scentful till it lasts.
But take care cos I’ve seen those shatter so soon.
Take me to a place where I was; Anything where there’s you.
Take my hand wrapped upon with your fingers of faith.
For I’m all up to be down for you.
Should it be like a rose without all the thorns but petals; I ask you.
I try not to compare, but you came and dissapeared like that wind past my neck; Whirling upon what you see next.
In life, whatever experiences you involve yourself in for the first time, are the ones you can never forget.
Our trip to Rishikesh, a destination popular for its “Yog Gurus” (particularly amongst foreign tourists after the Beatles visited here) and “Adventure Activities” went quite well. Untill…The roof above my beloved friend was blown leaving behind a flash of mini swimming pool with bubbles flying around. Continue reading
There is no “but” about what happened at Charlie Hebdo yesterday. Some people published some cartoons, and some other people killed them for it. Words and pictures can be beautiful or vile, pleasing or enraging, inspiring or offensive; but they exist on a different plane from physical violence, whether you want to call that plane spirit or imagination or culture, and to meet them with violence is an offense against the spirit and imagination and culture that distinguish humans. Nothing mitigates this monstrosity. There will be time to analyze why the killers did it, time to parse their backgrounds, their ideologies, their beliefs, time for sociologists and psychologists to add to understanding. There will be explanations, and the explanations will be important, but explanations aren’t the same as excuses. Words don’t kill, they must not be met by killing, and they will not make the killers’ culpability go away.
To abhor what was done to the victims, though, is not…
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In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Express Yourself.”
Family get-togethers are something where you can jump into interesting conversations and have fun together! This is one such memory…
My lil pumpkin’s growing up! I still always find her greeting me the way she is in this picture I clicked 5 years ago. God bless her with lots of self expression and love!
Well they said a 1942’s movie was hell of a distant past to be watched. Finally my curiosity conquered my mind.
Seeming to be quintessential love story between Rick and Ilsa, the movie shows how the time and situation overpowers their fate. There had to be a choice. All of this happens while you experience the political scene of WWII. The heroic stand of Rick for the couple Ilsa and Victor Laszlo to escape left me awestruck. It showed how bitterness dissolves, a possibility reveals but with a pinch of heartbeat.
At the last moment, Rick makes Ilsa board the plane to Lisbon from Casablanca with her husband, telling her she would regret it if she stayed – “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”